


We Are So Easily Ruined

by idyll



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Years, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Lydia both try to get away, even just temporarily, from werewolves and the supernatural, but it's not that easy. “We’re ruined,” Lydia says. “It <i>ruined</i> us, Stiles.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are So Easily Ruined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dish/gifts).



Stiles leaves it to chance. He applies to about ten colleges within a three hour drive of Beacon Hills, and just one all the way on the East Coast. It puts the decision out of his hands, which is maybe not entirely helpful or, like, self-actualizing, but it’s the best he can do.

He doesn’t really have it in him to actively decide to walk away from his dad, his friends and the Packs for college. He wishes he did because he’s _tired_. Not just physically, though there’s that, too, since he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep in the last two years. No, there’s been so much terror, violence and death that he’s broken a few times already. He’s worried if he breaks again he won’t recover.

When the letters start to come in, they’re all from the semi-local schools. Each one makes Stiles’ chest tighten and he has to lie down on the floor and breathe deeply to stave off a panic attack.

The letter from Columbia is the last one to arrive. He shakes when he opens it and his relieved gasping for air, upon reading it, sounds uncomfortably like sobs. He’s still sitting against a wall in his room gulping in air when his dad gets home from work an hour later.

“Oh, Jesus. Come on, kiddo. Breathe. You know how to do this.”

Stiles laughs, clings to his dad with one hand, and says, “Werewolves are a thing. _The_ thing.”

It maybe speaks volumes about how violently ridiculous Dad’s job has been over the last few years, and how lost he was to find any rational explanations, that all he says is, “That explains _so much_. Okay. Do you need one of your pills?”

They talk in the dimly lit living room until two in the morning, and Stiles has Scott come over before school just to show Dad some proof. Even though Dad really hasn’t seemed to need any. 

“Stiles, you’ve told me how many lies in the last two years? Yeah, I think I know when you’re doing it, and when you’re not.” He waves a hand at Scott, in a partial red-eyed and fanged shift. “I mean, it’s interesting and all, but not required for belief.” He turns and heads for the kitchen. “You boys want some breakfast?”

Scott shifts his face back to human and gapes at Stiles. “Dude! You told him and he’s being all calm about it! The hell?”

Stiles shrugs expansively. “I know. It’s been incredibly anti-climactic.”

Over breakfast, Scott keeps staring at Dad, until Dad sighs hugely and says, “What is it Scott?”

“Nothing, you’re just taking this really well. Better than my mom.”

Dad chews a forkful of egg-white omelet and nods. “Well, it’s probably partially because I’m also secretly a werewolf.”

Scott drops his fork with a clatter; Stiles flails off his chair. “Seriously?” they say together.

Dad rolls his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he says, and then mutters some really unflattering commentary about them and their intelligence so loudly “under his breath” that even Stiles can hear him.

Scott leaves to head for school but Dad calls off himself and Stiles in favor of bonding over the big confession and repairing their strained relationship. 

They're washing the breakfast dishes when Stiles tells him. "I got into Columbia, with a really impressive scholarship offer. Like, no loans and no debt, kind of impressive." He pauses. "I'm going."

Dad tears up, pulls his hands out of the soapy water, and hugs Stiles. 

“I’m so damn proud of you, Stiles.”

Stiles hugs him back for a long while but then squirms away. “I’ve got dishwater dripping down the back of my jeans, thanks for that.”

Dad, still grinning, ruffles his hair and then his face sobers. It’s not a bad kind of sober; just the opposite. “Your mom, kid. She’d be so proud of you, too. Not just for Columbia, for everything.” He pauses and then proves that, no matter how difficult things have been between them since Sophomore year, he still knows Stiles. “She’d tell you that it’s important to do for yourself.

Stiles blinks away the tears that immediately spring up at the mention of Mom. His dad is telling the truth, though. Stiles remembers how she would carve time out for herself, send Stiles and Dad away from the house for a day and recharge. She would keep Stiles home from school every so often--no more than two times a year--and they’d go off and do something fun and silly. When she got sick, she would go for facials and spa treatments. Self-care, she called all of it.

“Oh,” he says, choking on the memories. 

Dad palms the side of Stiles’ face and smiles sadly. “Yeah. Come on, let’s go to the amusement park, ride the roller coasters.”

*

Stiles leaves off telling Scott until a month before graduation. It’s not that he’s worried Scott will be upset or try to guilt him into staying local; that’s not how Scott rolls. At all. It’s more that, for all that Stiles needs to get the hell out of Beacon Hills, he also has a really hard time with change. And leaving friends in need.

That last part is the biggest sticking point. But it’s not like it used to be in Beacon Hills. The Packs--though they’re only technically separate now--are working together well, and Stiles knows Scott has a back-up and support system in place. 

Stiles waits until Scott pushes him once again about which acceptance he’s accepting. Then he hands Scott the letter from Columbia, which he's been carrying around in anticipation of this very moment. 

Scott reads it through and his face splits in a wide, excited grin. "Stiles! This is amazing!"

Stiles licks his lips. "It's far away, and you're staying here--"

"Stop." Scott sets the letter aside and puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders. The grip is sure and steady. "No matter what Mom says, we're not that co-dependent."

"Yeah, because _that's_ what I'm worrying about."

"Don't worry about any of it," Scott says with the kind of steadfast surety he's grown into somewhere along the way, and which fits him like a glove. Stiles is still waiting to grow into whatever it is that will define himself in others' eyes.

Stiles reaches up and takes hold of Scott's wrists. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Scott gives him a small shake with the word. "I know that you--"

"Yeah. But you--"

"No, I've got--"

"Oh, I mean--"

"Don't be dumb, not like you, just--"

"Right, no, that's cool."

They hug and settle down on the sofa in a tangle of limbs to watch the MCU movies from start to finish.

Later, when the last movie is looping through the title screen, the volume so low as to hardly be heard by human ears, Stiles whispers, “I love you, man. You know that, right?”

Scott rolls them so that Stiles is belly down on the couch, and Scott is draped over his back. “Me too. Brothers forever, no matter where either of us is.”

If Stiles’ throat gets thick with tears, well, the only one around to know it is Scott, and that kind of shit is safe with Scott. Everything of Stiles’ has _always_ been safe with him. 

“Can you--will you--”

“I’ll bring her flowers on every holiday and weed her grave, and I’ll have Mom bring your dad healthy food at least once a week.” 

When Scott stops talking, Stiles knows he’s not done. There’s a difference between Scott’s full stops and his pauses, and this is a pause. A fraught but determined one.

"Are you going to come back?"

Stiles closes his eyes. "I don't know. I just—I don't know."

“Okay. It's okay, Stiles." Scott is quiet until Stiles relaxes again under the warmth of his understanding support. Then he says, "While you’re gone, I won’t talk about any of that stuff.” Stiles shifts under him, ready to sit up and argue, but Scott presses him deeper into the old sofa. “No, it’s the only way. We’ll talk. But it’ll be about regular things. Normal things.”

“How about only if it’s something serious? Or really dangerous?”

Scott laughs against the back of his head. “It’s always serious and dangerous.”

Stiles would like to argue further but Scott is right. So very, very right. 

*

Stiles doesn’t _need_ to go tell Derek. Word will make its way to him via the Packs eventually. But they get along better than they used to, and have worked together a lot in the last year, so Stiles thinks Derek at least deserves the courtesy of hearing it straight from Stiles. 

When Derek answers the door, he looks like Stiles feels (and maybe Stiles looks that way, too, and is just too close to see it): tired and empty of reserves. Stiles twitches awkwardly and looks at Derek’s shoulder.

“Hey, man.”

“What are you doing here, Stiles?”

There’s nothing welcoming about Derek’s words or tone, but when Stiles darts a glance at Derek’s face he’s not frowning or glowering or anything like that.

“I kind of need to talk to you.”

Derek lets him in and they stand in the center of the room. Stiles is shifting from foot to foot, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck in nerves. Derek is standing like he’s bracing himself, and has his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Stiles doesn’t beat around the bush. “I got a full ride to Columbia. I’m going.”

Derek’s eyes widen briefly, and then he nods, relief and sadness in his eyes. “Good. You deserve it.”

Stiles isn’t sure what, exactly, Derek thinks he deserves, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask because Derek steps forward and kisses him. It’s surprising, but not entirely so. There’s been something between them for a while, this crackling energy of attraction. Neither of them has done anything about it until now. There are any number of reasons Stiles hasn’t acted on it, and he’s sure Derek has his own, too. Stiles thinks if their reasons were a Venn Diagram, there’d be a small overlapping area between their two circles.

Accepting the kiss is as easy as breathing. Derek’s mouth tastes like ash and regret. It would be off-putting, except Stiles figures his own has to taste of anger and sorrow. Stiles presses further into Derek’s space, until their chests are touching, and closes his eyes. 

Stiles’ lips are swollen and raw when Derek pulls back to look at him intensely, something like a question in his eyes. Stiles answers with a nod, and Derek leans in again, this time to rest his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder, faced tilted towards Stiles’ neck. He inhales deeply and Stiles shudders.

Stiles nudges Derek’s head upwards and initiates the kiss this time. It’s deeper, more filled with things felt but unspoken, possibly because neither of them really knows what those things are. Stiles doesn’t. He just knows they’re there, pronounced and devastating, and completely beyond his capability to face, address or acknowledge.

Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’ sides, palms huge and hot, and steers him towards that bed at the side of the room, the one that’s given Stiles more awkward boners than he’d care to admit.

It makes him laugh. Derek draws away, brows furrowed, but a small smile curling at his lips. “What?”

“That _bed_ ,” Stiles says.

The corner of Derek’s eyes crinkle and he kisses Stiles again, brings him in closer and holds on tighter. Stiles runs his own hands up Derek’s shirt-covered torso and chest, drags his palms up the scruff on Derek’s neck and cheeks, and then tangles his hands in Derek’s hair.

“Can I undress you?” Derek asks into his mouth.

“You better."

Derek tips them onto the bed and then strips him slowly, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been looking forward to all year and can’t believe is finally in his hands. Stiles pushes himself up, pulls Derek down, and kisses him again, can’t help it, not when Derek is handling him like this, looking at him like that.

Stiles doesn’t get a chance to unwrap Derek at all, much less slowly. Once Stiles is naked, sprawled out on the bed and almost devastated already--his scant sexual experience in no way prepared him for this--Derek stands up and looks him over with greedy eyes. Then Derek undresses so fast that Stiles thinks werewolf powers are actually being used.

Stiles would complain but then Derek is crawling between Stiles' legs and leaning down to drag his nose along the length of Stiles’ sternum. “What do you want?” Derek asks.

Stiles arches into Derek and lifts his knees to cradle him. He has to swallow back the word _Everything_. "I want to fuck you."

He both hears and feels Derek's sharp intake of breath. Then Derek tilts his face up and Stiles is the one to suck in a breath. Because Derek's face—Derek's _face_. It's soft and needy and vulnerably wide-open.

Stiles licks his lips. "Can I? I mean, I've only—it was just once, so I might not--"

"Yes," Derek says. Stiles thinks he means to sound firm, but he mostly just sounds desperate.

Derek straddles Stiles' hips after getting the lube out, and slicks up several of Stiles' and his own fingers. They open him up together, fingers tangling inside of him in a way that makes Derek's mouth drop open, that makes Stiles' stomach lurch like it does on roller coasters.

Once Derek is taking four of their fingers with ease, he lifts off of them. Stiles makes to move, to switch positions, but Derek holds him back with a large hand splayed across his ribs. "No, like this," he says, then reaches back to steady Stiles' dick so he can lower himself onto it.

This is nothing at all like the one other time Stiles fucked a guy, where Stiles was thrusting and the guy was just letting him.

Derek isn't letting anything, Derek is moving on Stiles' dick like he's dancing, hips rolling as he slides up and down, rocking on his knees as he goes. It's so many movements at once, all of them combining into something that's more obscene than some of the most graphic porn Stiles has ever watched. 

Which is ironic, because this is also nothing like porn. Not with the way Derek is watching Stiles, like he can't get enough of looking at him. Not with the way Stiles is discontent despite how good Derek feels on his dick.

"I want--" Stiles breathes out, hands grasping at Derek's shoulder and side, but his arms achingly empty. He tugs, tries to get Derek to lean down over him.

Instead, Derek shoves his hands under Stiles and pulls him up so he's sitting. Stiles kisses him immediately, sloppy and uncoordinated due to the spine-melting pleasure. He wraps his arms around Derek, clutches at the skin of his back, grabs handfuls of Derek's hair, scrapes his palms raw on the coarse hair on Derek's thighs.

Derek is strong enough to keep moving, to work himself on Stiles' dick like something fluid, no matter how hard Stiles holds him, no matter how tightly Stiles clutches at him.

"God, you've got a nice dick," Derek gasps.

Stiles chokes out a laugh, he can't help it. Derek groans, not a sex sound, an "I can't believe I just said that" sound. 

"Shut up. I just—I meant it feels good, it's so good, Stiles, god."

Stiles moves his head, nips at Derek's cheek, and reaches behind Derek to touch his rim. His fingertips catch and he pulls them back, whispers and apology, but Derek makes this noise, this high and shocked sound of pleasure, so Stiles puts them back. He doesn't slide a finger in alongside his dick, just curls the tips and tugs at Derek's rim. 

It feels incredibly intimate, more so than the sex, and Stiles bites the top of Derek's shoulder because he's not sure how to handle all these confusingly naked emotions that keep roiling through him.

Derek makes a hum of pleasure and goes faster, grunting broken sounds when Stiles fingers keep playing with him, and shoves Stiles' face against the side of his neck. "Just--"

"Bite?" Stiles asks, wet and open-mouthed against Derek's skin.

Derek shakes his head. "Suck."

Stiles works Derek's neck while Derek keeps riding his dick, and things start to get more frantic in small increments, until Derek's rhythm is lost and Stiles' fingers and mouth are still, and they're both so, so, so close.

Stiles takes Derek's dick in his free hand, jacks him to the same non-rhythm Derek's using, and before long Derek is shooting all over Stiles' chest, is strangling Stiles' cock with the force of his orgasm.

Derek pauses, breathes heavily with his face pressed to Stiles' hair, and Stiles pets his side, tries to soothe him down from it. It's a short reprieve, less than a minute, and then Derek is moving again, the angle slightly different. It's tighter, faster, and more purposeful, but no less fluidly graceful.

Just as Stiles is on the cusp, Derek tilts Stiles' head back with hands on both side of his face, and stares down at him. Stiles' neck is extended in a long line, his chin tipped up almost painfully, and his head is immobilized. He's pinned by Derek's gaze as much by his hands and it's too much, way too much, almost too much.

"Derek, Derek, oh, god, fuck, I--"

He comes and Derek doesn't look away, and Stiles forces his eyes to stay open, and it hurts. It hurts that place in his stomach that lurched earlier, hurts something tender and hidden between his shoulder blades, but it's the best kind of hurt.

When Stiles gets his breath back and is no longer shaking, they pull apart lingeringly, regretfully. Derek presses their foreheads together, eyes closed, and says, "Thank you."

Stiles isn't sure what to say in response, so he smooths his hands across the muscled tops of Derek's shoulders and down to his biceps, then grips tightly.

After a few minutes, they stumble into the bathroom. Stiles props Derek against the sink and then uses a wet washcloth to clean him up. Once Derek is less of a mess, Stiles swipes at his own groin haphazardly and goes to the toilet because his bladder is about to burst.

While Stiles is pissing, Derek goes back into the living area. He's wearing a pair of jeans when Stiles comes out. It's a clear enough clue, a resigned necessity rather than a dismissal. Stiles gathers up his own clothes and dresses while Derek watches, his flicking across Stiles' body and face like he's memorizing everything.

When Stiles is ready to go Derek says, "Wait."

Derek pulls a box out from under the bed and digs through it, then stops to scribble something on the back of receipt. He hands Stiles the receipt. There's a New York City address written, with Washington Heights in parentheses below it.

Stiles frowns at it, opens his mouth to ask what it is, but is stopped when Derek lifts Stiles' other hand and sets a keyring on Stiles' palm. There are three keys on it.

“There’s a storage room in the basement. Just put--” Derek takes a breath and swallows thickly. “Put our stuff down there.”

It takes Stiles a minute to understand. Derek and Laura’s stuff. Stiles clenches his hand so tightly around the keys that the teeth break skin.

“Derek, I...”

Derek shakes his head, eyes bright with fervent intensity. “Go, Stiles. Go there and leave this place behind.”

*

Lydia’s already gone, has been gone for over a month. She graduated early without telling anyone she was planning on it and then presumably went off to wherever she’s going to college. 

She left a note for Stiles that contained no important information about where she’d be or how to contact her. She just said she’d be staying in touch with her parents.

*

The last month of school, and the summer that follows, passes quietly, normally. There are no major supernatural dramas that unfold, just small incidents here and there that are easily taken care of. 

Stiles makes sure to eat a meal with his Dad twice a day. He hangs out with Scott almost every day—along with Allison and/or Isaac. He sees Derek only a few times, and they don't mention that night at Derek's loft, or the keys he gave Stiles, but they watch each other, orbit each other when in motion.

It's the calmest it's been in Beacon Hills since Scott was bitten and Stiles enjoys it for what it is but doesn't give in to the temptation to believe that it'll last.

*

Dad's over by the SUV he rented for the cross-country drive, checking the hitch connecting it to the U-Haul trailer filled with Stiles' stuff.

Scott stayed at Stiles' the night before, and they were up practically all night, talking and saying tearful, soppy goodbyes. Stiles is hugging him now, one final time before he leaves, and he can't bring himself to let go. Fortunately, Scott's stronger than Stiles, in more ways than one, so he peels Stiles off of him and steps back. 

Mrs. McCall wraps an arm around Scott's shoulder and they both smile. "Call me," Scott says.

"Always," Stiles promises.

Mrs. McCall's eyes are shiny with tears. "Be safe and be good. We love you."

Dad nudges Stiles into the SUV with a hand at the back of his neck, because Stiles' body doesn't want to seem to work on its own. There's a pressure on his chest making it impossible for his lungs to expand fully, making Stiles fight to get the air he needs. But he's calm, so very calm, and the further they get from Beacon Hills, the easier it is to breathe.

This is right, this is what he needs to do.


End file.
